These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends
by rhythm junkie
Summary: Bond asks to be assigned Q's Mild Torture Conditioning training. I own nothing. Please be aware this fic contains graphic descriptions of violence. Also that it is set in the Daniel Craig Bond era.


**THIS FIC CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GRAPHIC SEX**

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He could have used any number of methods to take Q, more effective less dramatic ways, but Bond found that a snatch-and-grab got the intended victim into a good starter-panic state. Q had thrashed in his arms with more strength than Bond had expected but still laughably weak against a trained operative. He had followed protocol but, on the couch ten feet from where he could hear Q's already-hoarse voice hollering through the open door, he allowed himself to examine the other reasons.

It was ridiculous but something about Q riled Bond right under his skin; this young man, no more than a boy really, who had taken over from Bond's Q and started shedding his trusted gadgets with nothing more than a critical sneer. Bond bristled at the impertinence and at being condescended to by the man. It made him want to lash out.

Bond had been attacked, had his own attacks foiled, been outsmarted and outfought, been captured and tortured, and been led on a merry chase by people far younger than this incarnation of Q but there was something about this particular man, in this particular setting, that made Bond's fists jerk in his presence.

Bond tipped his head back and listened to Q howl until his voice was a broken husk of itself. Then he sat a few hours longer.

Q's head was swaying back and forth and Bond knew that behind his blindfold, his eyes would be rolling in his head. He cracked his knuckles and thrust a fast finger jab between two of Q's ribs, high up on the left side. Q let out a pained grunt, trying to twist away but Bond caught him on the other side and yanked him back into position.

"Please," Q whispered, voice raspy from shouting, and Bond watched as his legs trembled, fighting to keep his weight upright. He didn't reply, simply circled the exhausted man, waiting for weakness, waiting for an in.

Q's shoulders drooped, his spine bending slowly towards the ground. Bond knew that exhaustion, bone deep and painful. He'd suffered it more than he could remember. Just as Q's knees looked like they were about to give out, Bond tapped at his kidney then twisted to catch him on the other side, roughly pulling him up again. Q was panting for breath, what face Bond could see screwed up in pain.

"I don't know what you want!" His voice was begging, laced with pain and snot and tears. Bond forced him back into the spot he'd been in for the past forty-four hours and continued circling.

Later, when it became clear that even groin flicks weren't enough to keep Q upright, Bond fetched the chains.

The thing about it was that Q wormed right into Bond's body and settled there, just under his ribs, like a growth he didn't know how to cut out. The thing about it was that Bond couldn't afford attachments. The thing about it was that Bond couldn't afford someone on his team, someone who held so many secrets in his young head, someone who wouldn't hold up until one of the 00's (Bond) could get to him. The thing about it was.

"Tell me about 007."

Q's blindfolded head whipped towards the sound of Bond's voice, muffled and distorted as it was through the piece of fabric he'd tied across his mouth. Bond moved silently to Q's other side, waited ten seconds then threw a bowl of cold water in his face. Q jumped, gasping and flailing, trying to follow the movement, trying to get some sort of read on his tormentor. Bond moved behind him even as Q's head was blindly lolling in the direction the water had come from.

"Tell me about 007," he muttered into Q's ear from behind, and the man whimpered. Bond smiled grimly. Five seconds went by before Bond, at the front again, threw more water in his face.

"I'll be back," he announced at the jerking body, and left. He closed himself in the insulated room , put a meal in the microwave and sat down to stare blindly at some news programme he knew was mostly bullshit.

Bond stared impassively at Q, hanging from the restraints around his wrists, skin dripping wet patches onto the concrete floor. His lips had a slight white tinge and his whole body was trying to curl in on itself. His head was dipped forward like it would protect him from the music that had been blasting at teeth-rattling volume for the past sixteen hours. His skin was still bleeding colour and littered with bruises and goosebumps. Bond turned away down the hallway, to the insulated room ten feet from the one Q was in, sat on the couch and took a mouthful of coffee.

Bond unchained Q and let the exhausted body collapse against his chest. Q clung on, mouth wobbling, and Bond had the unwelcome picture of a sad, wet Koala in his head. He'd seen it once in a magazine after a bush fire in Australia. Gods, he _hated_ Australia. Bond shook his head hard and gripped Q around the waist and upper arm. Q tried to struggle and Bond gave him a little tick in a box he kept in his head. Q had a disturbingly high number of ticks against his name.

He guided the blindfolded man to a chair then proceeded to dry his skin and hair with efficient swipes of a towel he's brought specially for the purpose. (He put that in a box and didn't think about it again). Q was tight across the shoulders, body leaning into the way Bond's movements warmed the skin whilst trying to lean away from the man himself. It was an interesting side-effect of torture, the way the body almost became two separate beings.

Pulling a mask over his face, Bond slid in behind Q and untied the blindfold that was now heavy and chafing-wet with water. Q immediately tried to turn his head but Bond stopped him with a tight thumb into the soft part under his jaw. Q grunted out a bitten-off moan of pain before he settled. His body began to tremble when Bond raised the new blindfold to his eyes but he didn't beg. Not yet. Bond felt an odd curl of pride between his fingers at that.

He fed him soup, warm chicken broth with buttered crusty bread, careful not to spill down Q's chin or allow him to eat it too quickly. He knew the kind of torture that involved food and wanted no part of that.

When Q's skin was pinker than it was white, and his belly was sated, Bond hit him hard across the face with the empty bowl and dragged his half-limp form back to the chains. He turned the music up louder as he left.

Ten minutes later, he was back in the doorway, silent and watchful.

Two hours in, Q began to cry.

"Tell me about 007."

Q was still crying, now-silent tears making the new blindfold wet and heavy at the bottom, sagging down over the man's cheekbones. Bond calculated that it had another hour or so before it covered his nose.

Bond dug his fingers into the cold slab of Q's thigh, the burning pain of sensation making the trussed man jolt and fight, the cuffs tugging at the skin on his wrists, making them bleed sluggishly. He removed his fingers and watched as the red welts they left behind slowly vanished, gritted his teeth against the urge to mark more permanently.

Bond stepped forward and stroked Q's hair, wiry and slick with sweat. Q was tense and still. He allowed his forehead to rest gently against Q's temple, until his lips were brushing the rim of a cold ear.

"Tell me about 007," he whispered, quiet and intimate, almost seductive. Q trembled and let out a noise that reminded Bond of a wounded animal, frightened and cornered. Not broken though, not yet. Another tick.

He took Q down a few hours later and settled him into a cot in the middle of the room, tied his hands together and covered him with a thick blanket. Watched as Q shuddered and passed out, waiting for the penny to drop.

Q fought, feeble as it was in his weakened state, but he did fight. Bond allowed another tick as he restrained the pale limbs to wood. Q's entire body was shuddering with his panting breaths when Bond stood back. Q was flat, arms tied tight above his head, chest, hips, thighs and calves tied down too. Only his ankles and feet were loose, hanging almost stiffly from the end of the table. Bond pulled the heavy metal stocks across the floor towards Q, grunting with the effort, cataloguing the way the noise raised hairs on Q's skin. Intended effect.

Once in position, Bond secured both of Q's ankles inside the unmoving cuffs before the man could struggle. Q was smart; Bond was fairly sure he now knew what was coming.

"Tell me about 007."

A full minute of silence wrapped around both men before Bond walked a few feet away to choose his weapon. He could tell all of Q's attention was on him. Bond picked up the length of hose, testing it in his palm, watching as Q jerked at the noise.

The first hit, a strike across the heel of Q's right foot, elicited a high-pitched scream which made Bond's own hair stand on end.

When they got down to thirty seconds between questions, he switched to a heavy rubber paddle. The screams this time were wet with pain.

At ten seconds, Bond used the cane.

Three hours after Bond had stopped, Q was still screaming, a hoarse sound that reminded Bond of wire on flesh.

Screams were all that he'd given away.

Everything was by the book. Everything was above board. Except that Bond shouldn't be asking about 007. That was not protocol. But Q was his. Belonged to Bond in a way that was both professional and disturbing if thought upon for too long. In the same way that Bond belonged to Q. Bond wanted to know. No, he _needed_ to know.

"Tell me about 007." He kept his voice soft and soothing even as he strapped Q down again, watching the man struggle and try not to show it. He'd be surprised if Q didn't start crying before he began.

Lips parted and Bond waited, hovering over the body he knew almost as well as his own (where to press to hear a gasp, where to get a scream, where to jab to get minimum damage, maximum pain) but there was nothing except an empty exhale.

Bond nodded to himself, once, and busied himself inserting the thin needles under Q's fingernails, watching the way the muscles in his forearms corded as he tried, futilely, to pull his hands away. Ignored the wails. No tears. Another tick.

"Tell me about 007."

Bond breathed steadily, _high voltage low current_ a constant mantra in his head, and set about trying to get his answers.

Six shocks in, he got convulsions.

"You've already gone sixteen hours over schedule."

"I need more time."

"It's conditioning Bond, not an interrogation." M's voice was starting to turn irate, with an encroaching edge of worry. "Training, nothing more."

James remained silent. Theirs was a circular argument.

"You have one more day 007, and then you're done."

Bond closed his phone and sat back, knees splayed, hands on his thighs, shoulders squared. His cock lay heavy in his trousers.

One more try.

He woke Q up at six am by dragging him from the cot by his hair before stuffing his head into a cloth bag. Q hit the ground awkwardly, taking most of the fall on his left shoulder, flailing and clumsy from sleep and shock and a sort of bone-deep terror that Bond had spent so much time putting there.

Q screamed and bit and threw himself around with an energy that surprised Bond, given his state and the things his body had gone through hours earlier. Then again, pain was a great motivator. Bond still had him strapped down in under three minutes. He was breathing heavily though and sporting a good-sized bite high up on his inner forearm. He tipped the wooden board up until Q's head was at a seventy degree angle to the floor, his feet high above him.

"Tell me about 007."

He gave Q less than five seconds before he began pouring water onto his face. This time, Q's struggles were more frantic than Bond had previously seen. He thrashed as Bond asked the same question at ten second intervals, his skin grating and bleeding against the ropes that held him in place.

Bond stopped an hour later, righting the board and unhooding Q. Q sobbed, great gut-wrenching things that seemed to shudder out from his very bones.

"Tell me about 007."

Q gave him fight and tears and cries of pain, but not what he wanted.

Bond untied him and forced him to his knees in the middle of the room. He loomed over the man for a minute, then turned and left the building entirely. As he stepped outside, he opened his phone.

"I'm done."

When Q opened the door, he visibly flinched. He recovered well but his initial reaction stood and James knew then that this had been a bad idea.

"I just wanted to check in on you."

Q said nothing. The bruises on his face had healed to a faded, mottled yellow, something that reminded James of the pages of an old book.

"You're back at HQ next week so…" James trailed off under the silence. It was unnerving, like Q was aware… Of course Q was aware.

"You know it was me." Not a question.

A hint of terror shaded the man's eyes but it was a wisp, gone in an instant. A nod, terse and short, in its place.

"Of course I know 007," he said, his voice dry as always, "There is nothing in the mainframe that can be hidden if I want to find it."

James nodded, looking Q over thoroughly from head to toe, just cataloguing, before turning to go.

"Wait."

It was the tone more than anything, too deferential, too needy, that had James turning back. Q stood in his doorway, face twisted in an odd approximation of longing and fear. James wanted to cover it up. His mind wandered briefly to a dirty cloth bag, once wet with water and breath. One that was kept under his floorboards, padlocked in with a back-up gun and a handful of mini sound grenades.

"Finish it."

The plea was small but laced with a hint of demanding that set James skin tense. He marched back to the open door, gratified as Q stumbled back at his approach before steeling himself just inside the hallway. James shut the door behind them and locked it, before turning back to Q and approaching slowly. Q swayed on his feet, half ready to run.

"Why you?"

"Because you need a good arse-whacking but I'm not allowed to give you that."

Q huffed a laugh, tight and low, enough to allow James close, to lay his hands on a trembling body. He ran palms up Q's arms, as soothing as they were pertinacious, and unravelled the scarf at his throat. Not there because he was cold, but to cover more skin. Naked and at a stranger's mercy did that to a person. James savage hands were tender as they tied the soft grey fabric over Q's eyes.

Q's breath quickened, body stiffening and shivering in turn. James stepped back, watching Q start towards him before noticeably checking himself. He let the man wait, one minute dragging into two.

"Take your clothes off."

Q scrambled to comply.

When he was bare, James circled a shaking Q slowly, taking in the marks he had left; what had healed, what was still tender. He traced a bruise, still violent in its colouring, between Q's ribs with careful fingers.

"How are your feet?" he asked as he bound Q's wrists with the tie he removed from his own throat.

"Healing," Q offered in a tentative whisper, hunching as though he expected another caning. James made sure to slide a palm up from waist to shoulder, and Q only startled a little when he took a hold of his upper arm and guided the naked man into his kitchen.

Settling himself on the only stool he found there, James guided Q until the he was sitting sideways across James lap, balanced in such a way that his tailbone jutted out. Q shuddered at the slide of James trousers over his bare skin but submitted easily enough, shifting at James touches until he was positioned as James wished.

James turned himself a little, until he could encourage Q forward so that his left shoulder and part of his chest was pressed against James. He used his teeth to open the packet of lube he'd brought with him, fishing it out of his jacket pocket and ripping it down the middle before placing it on the table, within easy reach. The coated index finger of his right hand found Q's exposed rump and circled, soft and easy. He pushed in hard at the same time he asked, "Tell me about 007."

Q's body wrenched forward, momentum cut off by the heavy wall of James chest. Q gasped, and his open lips brushed the shoulder of James shirt, fleeting warmth bleeding through. James followed one with another, shoving in deep then pausing, waiting out the tiny spasms both in his lap and around his fingers.

Q's bound hands scrabbled at James waist, little gasping noises falling from parted lips, and James secured his arm around the body in his lap, forcing it further forward as he began edging his fingers out, riding the slick-slide and the snuffling gulps against his neck.

He worked Q in slow presses and pulls, an apology as much as a declaration, feeling the heat inside turning looser, more liquid. Much like the rest of Q's body, mirror for mirror.

"Tell me about 007," he murmured into the sweat-slick skin of Q's jaw, dragging rough lips there, biting as the man stuttered a moan. James took the opportunity to add another digit.

Q writhed on his palm but his body stayed put, James thighs too solid to give much leeway, his own body absorbing Q's squirming whines. James began parting his fingers, twisting a little, digging in further, opening Q up, ready for use. Ready for his use. A fourth found its way in and James began screwing his hand, a quarter turn one way, a half turn another.

Q's entire skin, his back, his torso, his jumping thighs, were all a sheen with sweat. His mouth was open but soundless and James took the opportunity to whisper into its sweetness, "Tell me about 007," before running his tongue across dry lips. Q keened.

"Tell me," James asked again, pulling Q closer, wriggling his fingers, making Q sob a breath into the air, "Come on now."

"Oh God," Q called out, loud the still kitchen, "He's dangerous, not too bright but hard in ways that can't be quantified. He isn't emotional, isn't compassionate or empathetic. You can't beat him. He's a machine."

"Oh," James exhaled against Q's hair, stilling his fingers one by one, letting the man breathe, "such a good boy." He removed his hand from Q's slick-open rump, twisted the man around until his legs lay on either side of James, caught the bound wrists and eased them over his head.

"That's all I wanted," he crooned into Q's throat, under his jaw, licking the salt skin there. Q was whining a constant low noise as James opened his own trousers and lifted Q's body easily to push them down mid-thigh. He positioned Q as he straightened and the head of his cock caught the loosened hole, making the man's back arch a little, pre-come spurt from the head of Q's hard, purple cock. It brushed a sticky trail against the front of James shirt, a thin thread of it tying them together briefly.

"You just had to answer my question," James murmured, mouthing at skin, "That was all." And he thrust in, all at once, balls deep. Q let out a high yelp, trying to rise away from the intrusion but James held him down in a tight grip and bit down hard at his throat. Q convulsed a little in his arms before growing still, a measure of malleability in his muscles.

James reached for the lube and wet his hand, transferring it to his cock as he lifted Q from it, leisurely, enjoying the cling and the tight of the pull out. When he lowered Q down again, nudging his cock in inch by inch just to enjoy it, the slick making the give easier, Q moaned and tighten his thighs around James hips. James tipped himself back slightly, encouraging Q to slump forward onto his chest so that he could lever both hands under Q's thighs, encouraging Q to lift and fall onto his cock again, a good, easy, deep slide, forearms tightening and loosening at almost the same rhythm as Q's arse around him.

James first orgasm was quick and strong, Q's head dropping back as he howled at the feel of James come wetting him inside. James pulled him down into his lap as he spent, held Q there, kept his cock inside and went to work marking up pale skin, littering throat, shoulders and chest with brazen red bites, just like he wanted to.

James second orgasm was a drawn-out thing, Q shoving down onto each thrust, face red and twisted with it, cock bouncing between them, leaking, angry and untouched. Q whimpered and stuttered out sweet little begging words but James ignored him, filled him until it erupted out from where James had Q plugged up tight, until they were both wet with it. He didn't get soft that time, just fucked through it until he was ready again.

The third time, James had to pause to rip the pocket square from his now discarded jacket and tear into it with his teeth until he had a strip wide enough to tie around the base of Q's pulsating erection. It slipped several times, the skin wet with a coating of pre-come, but James persisted until it was secure. Q buried his face in the side of James neck, heavy puffs of breath dampening the collar of James shirt, body bunched up around how he was aching for it. James dug his fingers into Q's waist, firm, heavy hip-jolts shoving his cock in through lube and come, sliding it up into Q's looser, wetter, welcoming hole. Q sobbed on each breath and James gritted his teeth, going harder, letting the hot hold of Q's body, the lurching slip-slide of his clutching arse shove James brain over into something primal. He cored in harder, wrenching the fabric from Q's erection, wanking him viciously until he came, screaming, arse contracting around James ploughing cock and dragging the orgasm out of him.

"Stay."

Q gripped James's wrist, surprisingly strong for a man who had been limp as James washed him, dried him and put him to bed. James paused, looking down at the dark tousled hair, eyes still closed, and nodded. Although Q couldn't possibly have seen it, his hand fell away from James skin, satisfied smile curling his lips.

James removed his now-ruined suit and slipped under the duvet. Q made a plaintive sound and burrowed backwards until his body came into contact with James, letting out a contented little sigh as James gathered him up and pulled him in close.

Q fell into sleep fast after that. His own exhaustion, although there, was muted so James passed the hours burying his fingers through unruly curls.

Everything went back to normal. For a given value of normal. Q returned to active service, all dry wit and passive-aggressive intelligence. Bond's palms continued to itch with the urge to redden his skin.

Except for Q's fingertips, briefly warm against the back of Bond's hands where before there was only the filtered air of the lab.

Except for Q sliding in as he showed Bond the function of some new electric-shock-poison pen gadget, half his body warm against half of Bond's, and Bond's palm resting against a bony hip for a fraction of a second.

Except for Q's smile, tentative and small, thrown out like a question for Bond to answer.

Except for Bond's eyes, which instinctively found Q's form anywhere in HQ and any given point of the day or night.

Everything went back to normal.

Except for that.

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**Thank you for reading**


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